


Kittens and Fluff

by msdistress



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, Fluff, Humor, Kittens, M/M, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-02
Updated: 2012-05-30
Packaged: 2017-11-01 00:38:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/350068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msdistress/pseuds/msdistress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is made of kittens. Quite literally.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aderyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aderyn/gifts).



> Written for an epic Kink-meme [prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/16422.html?thread=94510118#t94510118): John gets injured on a case. Sherlock rushes to look at the cut. Only instead of blood, a tiny kitty crawls out from under his skin.
> 
> "I thought everyone knew I was made of kittens."
> 
> \---  
> Unbetaed.

John lifted Tea, Jam, Clara, Murder and Poison out of the way before opening the cupboard and reaching for the tuna cans. He opened the first can, and the mewing, purring and pushing against his legs intensified by at least a half. "All right, _all right_. Hold on, you lot, I'm coming."

When he put down the last bowl, he heard the flat door open, and Sherlock's feet shuffling towards the kitchen.

"Ow ow ow ow OW!" John said reproachfully to Greg, who was using his thigh as a scratching post, and lifted the grey kitten away by the scruff of his neck. The little tom gave him an unrepentant look before attacking his slipper instead. John sighed and started to collect the empty bowls that covered most of the kitchen floor. 

"John, you _really_ need to start being more careful. I don't think we can fit any more kittens in the flat, and Molly said she has no more room either. I also tried talking to Stamford, but he pretended to be busy. And allergic. Which I know he's not." Sherlock looked slightly desperate, while absently petting Donovan who was enthusiastically purring in his arms.

"I'm not doing it on purpose, love" John said defensively. "You know that."

Sherlock shuffled closer, mindful of not stepping on anyone, and bent down to give him a quick peck on the lips. His tone was conciliatory. "I know, John. But it _is_ rather inconvenient."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Aderyn who wanted more kittens with silly names.
> 
> Unbetaed, non-native.  
> Concrit welcome.

By the time Greg got to the scene, it was all over.

Sherlock was arguing with an officer in a neon jacket who had been unfortunate enough to have attracted his attention. Anderson was collecting evidence and Sally was overseeing the setting up of the barrier tape. In addition to several patrol cars, there was an ambulance as well. The flashing lights reflected off the wet asphalt, and the static from the police radios created familiar background din. There was no sign of either John or the suspect.

Greg nodded to Sally as he walked up to her. She wordlessly handed him a styrofoam cup of coffee. He took a sip and made a face at the taste, as they both turned to watch Sherlock tear the officer verbally to pieces.

“What’s gotten into him this time?”

“Rawlings had a knife and managed to cut John. By the time we got here, we had to pry the freak off of him.” At Greg’s alarmed expression she lifted her hand in a calming gesture. “They are both fine, I think, although there’s some minor wear and tear on the suspect. The paramedics are looking over both of them right now.”

“Yeah, okay.” Greg covered his mouth and yawned, rubbed his eyes. It had been a long night. “What about the cats?”

“There’s only one this time, sir, but it’s pretty big. It’s underneath the ambulance. I don’t think it likes the lights and the noise.”

“Right. Let’s take a look.”

Greg handed his coffee back to Sally, took the offered torch in exchange, walked to the ambulance and knelt down. At first glance there was nothing underneath the car, but then he caught a glimpse of pale fur behind the front tyre. He sidled closer and turned the light towards the animal, all the while making calming noises and pushing his hand towards its hiding place. Then he suddenly saw what kind of animal it was, yelped, and dropped the torch in his haste to scramble back. His heart was hammering but after a few seconds he realised that it wasn’t following him. He looked around and was relieved to see that as the ambulance had shielded him from the other officers’ prying eyes, Sally had been the only one to see his reaction. It wasn't like he'd lose his authority if everyone saw him falling on his arse, he just preferred if they didn't. He picked up the torch, stood up nonchalantly, wiped his trousers and walked back to Sally while glowering at her. To her credit she did her best to hide her mirth.

“Sally. Please tell me why is there a lynx hiding underneath the ambulance?”

“It’s not a lynx, sir. It’s a caracal.”

_“A what?”_

“A caracal. It’s a medium-sized cat, apparently quite common in the Middle East, related to the serval.” Sally smiled faintly at Greg’s incredulous expression. “Well. John once told me it was a Pashtun spell that backfired, so…” She shrugged.

The ambulance doors opened and a handcuffed man, sporting a split lip, scratches all over his skin and shredded clothing was ushered out by Thompson. The man looked like he had been mobbed by a pack of angry housecats, or, as Greg mentally amended, by a furious consulting detective and a caracal.

As if on cue, Sherlock seemed to notice Greg for the first time. He turned abruptly, cutting off the unfortunate officer he had been haranguing in the middle of the sentence, and purposefully strode to where Greg and Sally were standing. Greg mentally prepared for a tirade, but Sherlock was almost uncharacteristically civil, at least for him. Probably because he wanted something, Greg thought gloomily. 

“Right. John lost quite a lot of blood, so the paramedics want to take him in for observation for the night. I’m riding with him in the ambulance, so I need you to take the cat to Baker Street. Just ring the bell, Mrs. Hudson will take care of him. She’s used to it by now.” He seemed to be twirling in his place, all impatience and barely concealed contempt.

“Sherlock. It’s not a cat, it’s a caracal. I can’t transport a wild animal in patrol car, it’s not safe.”

“Oh for heaven’s sake, Lestrade. It's not an ordinary cat. Just put it in the pet carrier you have in the boot of your car. It will be fine.”

“Sherlock, it’s a fucking lynx. _It won’t fit.”_

“Caracals are not lynxes, and it’ll be fine.” Sigh. “Look. I’ll show you.”

Sherlock marched to the ambulance, dropped down on all fours, reached his hand underneath the car and dragged out the struggling caracal by the scruff of its neck. The animal was quite impressive. Even though it was smaller than it had seemed underneath the car, it was still bigger than any cat Greg had ever seen outside the zoo. Compared to the lynx, it was slimmer and smaller, its limbs were longer as was its tail, and its short coat was sand-coloured, just like John’s hair. It seemed to dislike the sounds of radios and patrol cars and the flashing lights as it kept flicking its long tufted ears around, and attempted its very best to slink back underneath the ambulance. Sherlock had none of it, though, he was holding it against his chest firmly as he kept petting it with his other hand and murmuring quietly to it. 

Greg took tentative, slow steps towards the man and the cat on the ground, making sure to appear as unthreatening as possible, looking at Sherlock instead of staring at the caracal. He didn’t want the cat to panic and start scratching everyone in the vicinity. Well, he didn’t want the cat to start clawing at him, full stop. The gouges on the suspect’s face and torso had looked pretty deep. Sherlock paid him no mind, all his attention was on the caracal slowly relaxing under his attention.

“It’s fine, everything is fine. John and I are going to go to the hospital to have him checked out, but we’ll be home tomorrow, and meanwhile you'll get to meet all the others, and Mrs. Hudson as well. And look, here’s uncle Lestrade and aunt Sally who are taking you to Baker Street in a patrol car.” Both the men and the cat ignored Sally’s snort at being added to the caracal’s family tree. “They will care for you at least adequately, I am certain. Come on, you’re safe, we’re all safe, everything is fine. Now. Who's a good kitty? You are. Yes, you are. Yes, obviously you are.”

With a small pop the caracal suddenly disappeared, and Sherlock’s lap was filled with several kittens. 

“See? I told you it was fine.” He carefully deposited the kittens in Greg’s arms and stood up. “I need to go, John is waiting for me. Take good care of the kittens, we’ll pop by at the station tomorrow for our statements after they let John out of the hospital. Oh, and you can name them, if you want to. God knows I have other things to think about, and John's suggestions border on the inane.” And with that Sherlock turned in a swirl of coat and strode away.

Greg sighed and held the kittens while Sally fetched the pet carrier. When he had placed them all in it, he stared at the squirming furry mass of tiny, adorable paws, blinking blue eyes, yawning mouths and tufted ears. He sighed again, and picked up one of the kittens at random, holding it in his hands. The tiny creature stared back at him fearlessly before starting to purr and push its face against his left thumb.

“Right. Okay. Names. How would you like to be called Madness?” 

It turned out that Mrs. Hudson absolutely adored little Madness, Insanity, Lunacy, Bonkers, Crackers, Nutter, Barmy, Batty and Dotty, but it was tiny How-is-this-even-my-life which really melted her heart.


End file.
